


Relapse

by nikonic



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 05:47:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6361855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikonic/pseuds/nikonic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a decade long addiction, and the guilt from her relapse doesn't help in the slightest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relapse

**Author's Note:**

> This came out of left field. It's dark and angsty. It has some serious trigger behaviors, so please be warned. Depression and anxiety are real diseases that are nothing to joke about. If you or someone you know needs help, there are great 24/7 resources online that will listen. 
> 
> All of that being said, I own nothing, and please enjoy.

Not a damn thing crosses her mind. Not what should anyway. There isn't a thought about the right thing to do or how it should be processed. It doesn't occur to her to ask for help- not from her fiancé, not from her friends. It's all too jumbled to make out a clear thought process. It's a mess. 

Rather she's a mess. And it's going to get worse before it gets better. It's a familiar feeling, that self doubt crawling up her spine. The self loathing isn't far behind. Neither of those things help provide any clarity to the inner turmoil. She knows how this ends- a panic attack, a mental breakdown, some violent outpour of emotion bottled inside for too long. 

A voice inside of her head taunts her with phrases like people out there are happier with so much less than what you have and there's no reason to feel this way. It's right. There wasn't a trigger, nothing particularly traumatic or stressful, and yet she's on the floor of the bathroom, her back firmly pressed against the wall because it's some sort of stability. 

She nearly laughs at the thought. Stability. The human earthquake. The hacker always running in the shadows. The kid with more foster homes than toes and fingers combined. A jolted vibration shakes the ground for a long second. "Fuck," she groans desperately, the self deprecating thoughts further poisoning her mindset. 

Later she'll realize that loss of control was her undoing, but now she unfurls the knife discreetly tucked at her ankle. The pads of her fingers dance over the blade darkly, and she briefly recalls the foster sister who shared this particular coping mechanism. No telling if it's better or worse than the foster brother who taught her about the relief at the bottom of a bottle. 

The edge catches the meat of her thumb, drawing blood with just the slightest graze, and it snaps her from her memories to the reality where her train of thought is still murky and pained. On complete autopilot, she strips to her underwear and settles onto the floor of the shower. That's one lesson she learned long ago. 

It isn’t instantaneous. It isn’t perfect. It doesn’t fix anything at all; it's only a temporary moratorium. She's not stupid enough to believe this is a healthy coping mechanism. It's an addiction, one that she has battled for over a decade, one that laid mostly dormant until today. The blade clatters to the tiled floor, and she flattens her palms on the tops of thighs, feeling the thump of her pulse. It's that rhythm that slows everything down. The weighted feeling in her lungs lifts slightly. Just in time for the relapse-driven guilt to settle in its place. 

The warm water sprays around her. It stings her open wounds and sends crimson-tinted spirals circling towards the drain. It acts as another step in the distraction- the rhythm of the water, the sight of her blood rushing away. She pretends that her demons are carried away in the current, washing down the drain, and that does make her feel just a little bit lighter. In the whole grand scheme of things, it might not be much, but in moments like these, it's the smallest things that make the biggest difference. 

Blood still oozes down her thighs when she finally drags herself out of the shower stall. She barely recognizes the person staring back at her in the mirror. Just outside, the bunk door slides open and Bobbi calls out a greeting. "Hey. I'll be out in a second." Her own voice even sounds foreign, as dread and guilt bubble to the surface. 

Hydrogen peroxide. Gauze. Medical tape. Butterfly bandages. Paper towels. It's all methodically laid out along the counter one by one before the actual dressing of the wounds begins. It must take longer than she releases because she nearly jumps in the air at the knock on the bathroom door. "Hey Dais, you okay in there?" It's starts chain reaction. The bottle of hydrogen peroxide spills, and Daisy curses loudly. Concerned, Bobbi slides the door open and promptly stops in her tracks. 

"What... You..." The blonde's long pause weighs heavily on Daisy's shoulders, though she struggles not to show it. "It looks like you could use some help." It's the tone Bobbi uses in the field, the superior officer tone. It leaves no room for question or debate, just obedience. "Here, sit." Feeling like a scolded child, Daisy lifts herself onto the counter. "What's going on with you," Bobbi implores quietly, pleadingly.

It's habit that drives Daisy's response. "Nothing." Even as she utters the monotone lie, the counter quakes slightly. 

"Clearly," Bobbi deadpans as her fingers work dexterously to tend to her fiancé's self-inflicted wounds. "You want to try that again? Or do you want to pretend like I believe you? Seriously Daisy. Did I miss you coming to talk to me?" 

"It's not... I didn't even think about you. It sounds bad, I know. It's not like I don't think you'd help or that you wouldn't listen. It's that I physically can't find the words, and... Fuck... And everything just boiled over all at once, all of a sudden. I just acted. I needed my thoughts to stop, to take a breath, to back away from the darkness. I didn't even consciously realize I was doing it. It just... It just happened, and I know that that kind of makes it worse. I needed an immediate outlet and I relapsed."

The admission is whispered in a rushed breath of air. It's stream of consciousness more than anything, and Daisy hopes it gives Bobbi enough of a look inside her dark, twisted mind to understand. "I love you, you know," the blonde states. Daisy stares at her, confused, and manages a nod. 

"I wish it hadn't resorted to this. I hate that you hurt yourself, but I understand not having the words. I understand needing a release. I understand a relapse." And she does; the pain pills after Ward really did a number on her. "This can't become habit again, okay? I need you in this world. All of you. Here with me. And this is an unnecessary addiction that puts all of that at risk."

Hazel eyes meet blue, as Daisy nods her understanding. Maybe it doesn't fix everything, but the words are out there. Good words. Loving words. Caring words. And they fight back the demons bit by bit, giving Daisy a renewed strength to battle a lifelong addiction with Bobbi by her side.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear what you think - feedback, comments, desire for a second chapter of fluff, whatever.


End file.
